


9:26 pm Friday

by makokitten



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deception, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His schedule is almost always clear where she's concerned.  She's not so generous with him. Pre-S1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	9:26 pm Friday

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [Tumblr](http://makokitten.tumblr.com/post/56908539487/9-26-pm-friday-elementary-moriarty-holmes).

* * *

            Usually he loathes idioms, but there’s no better way to say it: she makes him go weak at the knees, and it’s both because of sentiment and because of the thing she was doing with her fingers a few minutes ago that he never thought he’d like.  She makes him want to stay in bed, which few people can do, but then again he also thinks standing might be a terrible idea in the immediate future.  He settles in to bask next to her instead.  Her hair is like the sun.

            “We should go to dinner sometime,” he suggests.  There’s a Molotov cocktail of endorphins and oxytocin coursing through his veins and it’s making him say things that he can’t bring himself to feel ashamed of.

            “Dinner?” she asks, turning over on her side to look at him.  Her eyes were painting something on the ceiling, before; maybe a constellation, or maybe the bust of an important man from the Renaissance, facing to the left.  He wants to explore the intricacies of her mind, trace her brush strokes.  “Isn’t that one of those normal people things you abhor on principle?”

            (She had been thinking of African blood diamonds, and how certain warlords can overcomplicate things, and how she’ll have to make a phone call after they part regarding the planting of a strategic land mine.  But he’s not to know that.) 

            “Usually,” he says, “but I find our conversations intellectually stimulating, and we’ve had very little time for them lately.  Not that I object to what we do instead of talking, of course, but—”

            She laughs.  He loves the sound of her laugh.  If he could paint it—if he could paint at all—it’d be a waterfall.  He knows she’s laughing at their own private joke, because during their last encounter he tried to talk to her about the use of beeswax in oil painting, but, as they were both naked at the time, she wasn’t having it.  “Later,” she said to him.  “Right now I need your mouth to do something else for me.”  He might have been put off, but he loved that instead, loves the way she says things, the way she puts them so bluntly.  (Loves her.  That’s the subtext.)

            Right now, in this moment, she purses her lips and turns away from him again to reach for her phone on the nightstand.  “I understand,” she says, and he hears her smile even though she’s no longer facing him.  “It’s just a busy week for me.  Let me check my calendar…”

            (She sees: rest of the weekend, no good.  Saturday and Sunday she’ll be in Côte d'Ivoire, because apparently if you want something done right these days… Monday sees her back in Europe, but—)

            “No _peeking_ ,” she says to him, covering up her phone’s screen.  He hadn’t seen anything, anyway, but he mutters something that he doesn’t mean about disliking surprises, and settles down against her shoulder, his eyes closed.  Her skin is so soft, and when he tests it with his tongue it tastes like sweat and nothing else describable, just her.

            (Anyway, Monday she’s in Paris for a meeting with one of her financial managers regarding the recent unrest in the Middle East and the profit that they’re turning—if they’re turning any at all at this point, incompetent fool.  The next time he lies to her, she’ll have his tongue cut out.  Tuesday is a nightmare, what with all of that business in the Czech Republic.  Wednesday morning she has a massage penciled in and Wednesday afternoon she needs to supervise the assassination of a famous composer to make sure that it looks like a proper suicide, but then…)

            “Wednesday evening should work,” she says at last, and he opens his eyes at the sound of her voice.  “If _you’re_ free.”

            “I’m free as long as no one’s gruesomely murdered that day,” he says.  It sounds like a joke and it isn’t.  She knows.

            “Let’s hope not,” she says.  “Wednesday.”

            “Wednesday,” he repeats. 

            He smiles at her.  She smiles back—and then she’s smiling into a kiss.  In this moment, as he brings up his hand to stroke her soft golden hair, they’re on the same page, because they’re both thinking, fondly, about how she makes him a very simple man. 

            (Except she’s also thinking she might want to move that assassination to Thursday, to be safe.)


End file.
